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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22522792">An Icicle in a Snowfield</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowstarKanada/pseuds/ShadowstarKanada'>ShadowstarKanada</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>House M.D.</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Depression, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2006-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2006-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 11:27:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,363</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22522792</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowstarKanada/pseuds/ShadowstarKanada</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson can't seem to care. House can't stop caring.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>An Icicle in a Snowfield</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"You just <em>left him there!"</em></p>
<p>There was a point to this story once, or at least, Wilson assumes there was. Cameron has been nearly screaming at him for the past five minutes, and though it beats the twenty minutes and threats of lawsuits Cuddy screamed about, Wilson hasn't been feeling well enough to really... well... care.</p>
<p>"With friends like you, he doesn't need <em>Tritter </em>to screw him up," she hissed. "Bad enough that you sold him out. But what kind of friend would leave someone to an overdose? What kind of doctor? How can you even <em>pretend-</em>"</p>
<p>Wilson pulls out a file and ignores Cameron's shrieking voice. Fourteen years old, shwannoma on the 8th cranial... Surgery will be dangerous, but the tumor is large and exerting a great deal of pressure. Wilson raises one eyebrow and sighs at the initial incorrect diagnosis. Is someone pawning work off onto the second year students again? He decides he'll have to check, then adds a note to the results to remind the attending to have the family tested for NF2, and puts the file in his to-do pile.</p>
<p>"Was it <em>easy </em>to leave him lying there in his vomit?"</p>
<p>"He induced the vomiting himself, Cameron," says Wilson, more reasonably than should be possible under the circumstances. He pulls another file out of his in-box. "If anyone is qualified to treat themselves- to self-medicate- it's House," he adds wryly. "Look, he's not my patient, and he can take care of himself from now on."</p>
<p>"Wasn't the idea that he's an <em>addict </em>and can't take care of himself?"</p>
<p>Wilson shrugs and pulls out the MRI in the folder. Five years old, craniopharyngioma. At least it hasn't been misdiagnosed. No reason for him to deal with it, so why is it on his desk? He turns the page a few times, and realizes the problem. He puts it in his to-do pile for the second opinion the family is requesting.</p>
<p>"You're not even listening," she finally says, putting a hand on the files in Wilson's in-box as he reaches for another one.</p>
<p>"Of course I'm listening, Cameron." Wilson leans back in his chair. "Like all your colleagues, you think I'm a terrible doctor for not making sure House was okay, when he could have died from an overdose. I got it when Chase came in to talk at me about all the addicts he's treated over the years."</p>
<p>"Would you even have <em>cared </em>if he lived or died?" She says it like it's an accusation instead of a question.</p>
<p>Wilson is as surprised as Cameron with his matter-of-fact answer. They stare at each other, her in horror, him in a peculiar, sheltered sort of curious apathy.</p>
<p>Eventually, Wilson puts a strained smile on his face. "I have small children's death sentences to check over," he says pleasantly, nodding at the patient files. Cameron removes her hand from them like she's been burned. She looks disgusted, and walks out the door. She slams it on her way out, and Wilson looks at the files for a moment, finally admitting that he doesn't really <em>care</em> that the next one is for an eight year old with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.</p>
<p>Now that she's gone, Wilson doesn't feel much like looking over his work, so he locks the door to keep everyone out, then opens the door to the balcony, kicks off his shoes to keep them from being damaged, and walks out into the snow.</p>
<p>It's cold outside, but nowhere near as bad as during Wilson's university days when a freak storm managed to knock out the heater for two days before the gas company came to fix it. He sits down in the snow, because it's more comfortable than standing up or leaning against the balustrade, both of which would mean he'd be within eyeshot of House.</p>
<p>He watches his breath turn white and tries to make winter 'smoke' rings with it. A breath of wind blows the rings to pieces and ruffles his hair. "I'm really not sorry for leaving him alone," he tells the wind quietly, testing the words. The feeling and texture, the shape and the taste. He doesn't feel bad about them being true. "I wouldn't have cared if he lived or died."</p>
<p>He is surprised by how the words don't ring false- he's been half-expecting to find that it was a lie constructed by some terrible part of his brain that just wanted Cameron to get out of his office. "She's annoying sometimes," he sighs, and while the words are true, he's disturbed that he wasn't actually <em>annoyed</em> by her righteous indignation.</p>
<p>"I'd have been happier if he'd died." The words hang in the air until Wilson sighs. "Well, I'm happy that was a lie." Those words hang in the air too, and Wilson lifts his eyebrows. "Or maybe I'm not..."</p>
<p>He's feeling pretty cold with his back to the hospital building, but he doesn't feel like going inside and looking at scheduling concerns, so he lies down in the snow on the concrete. He thinks about who would find him if he froze out on the balcony, stops when he realizes how uncomfortable he is as the snow melts into his suit, and makes a snow angel because he can't think of anything better to do while lying on the ground. He stands up to admire his work, then laughs, because laughter is supposed to be therapeutic and he needs to feel a bit happier. It doesn't seem to be doing any good, so he stops and leans against the low wall between the balconies and scratches his head sheepishly instead.</p>
<p>It's around this time that he gets hit by a snowball.</p>
<p>"House," he says without turning, because who else would throw a snowball at him? "Been there long?"</p>
<p>"Long enough." House's voice is tightly controlled, angry. Wilson wonders when House took his last pill, and whether he is coming down or just getting high. "How is it that you screw up my life and make it about you?"</p>
<p>"Pure talent," says Wilson flippantly, because it's expected that he shouldn't be too serious when he's talking to House. "I think you've got it backwards though. <em>You </em>screwed up <em>my </em>life."</p>
<p>"'My job sucks, Cuddy hates me, Chase hates me, Cameron hates me, I lied to the police, I told the <em>truth</em> to the police, cancer doesn't have a cure...' Oh, boo-hoo," House scoffs. "Catching pneumonia is a stupid way to kill yourself."</p>
<p>"You're one to talk about stupid ways to kill yourself," Wilson mutters. He takes a breath and tries to blow another white ring of air. "That should <em>bother</em> me, shouldn't it..." Wilson shrugs and sighs. "It doesn't." He purses his lips. "I was looking at my patient files and I didn't care. <em>That </em>one bothers me."</p>
<p>Another snowball hits him, right in his hair. "Oh, <em>shut up</em>. If you're going to lie, lie about something interesting." Wilson shakes his head, sending most of the snowball tumbling to the ground. House is quiet behind him, but Wilson can suddenly feel warm breath on the back of his neck, countering the feeling of cold <em>wet</em> creeping down his spine.</p>
<p>"Are you going to tell me I'm an idiot now?" House lets out a breath that somehow conveys annoyance and exasperation, <em>that's way too easy </em>without the words. "Are you going to sue me? Cuddy tells me you have a case." The man behind him snorts in a way that practically screams <em>you think I'm going to testify I overdosed on stolen oxy? </em>"I think I agree with the bad doctor and lousy friend angles, so it'd be a bit redundant to tell me that."</p>
<p>House raps Wilson gently with his cane. "Shut up while I try to think of something inspiring. Something involving puppies, rainbows and kids that look forward to Rogaine spam."</p>
<p>Wilson shivers. "You could have died, House... It wouldn't have taken much for me to call someone. You should be too angry to talk to me; I should be torturing myself with dying kids." His hand becomes a fist for a moment, and he pauses to wonder when it became torture instead of therapy, and when exactly torture had turned into tedium. "Besides, your inspiration would be wasted breath. I think I'd prefer cold, hard reasoning about why you're out here instead of inside, thinking about your differential."</p>
<p>House doesn't say anything for a while, but Wilson hears him moving, pacing in the snow. He eventually stops. "Turn around," he orders. Wilson turns without thinking twice, but can't quite meet House's eyes. He can feel House's gaze crawling over him. It lasts a long time, given that he's standing in the snow with wet socks and melting snow finding the crack between his shirt and his pants, and he's starting to feel more than a little foolish. "When's the last time you had sex?"asks House.</p>
<p>"It's not... <em>I'm </em>not all about sex." Wilson frowns, but House doesn't do or say anything, so Wilson answers again. "Oh, I don't know. I don't remember." House keeps staring at him, and Wilson supposes he is waiting for the truth. "Couple of months. Three, four..." He shakes his head, and still House waits. "Grace," he finishes, annoyed.</p>
<p>"That's a long time for you."</p>
<p>There's no judgement in the statement, and Wilson's mouth quirks up. "You know, I did manage to get through most of puberty without it."</p>
<p>"Why's it been so long?"</p>
<p>"Because you sabotage my relationships? I went out with Cuddy, and I don't want to watch you pick all my dates apart. And I just haven't been interested." Wilson shakes his head. "What is this, House? I thought you were going to tell me why I'm such a bastard. Not getting laid is the best you can come up with?"</p>
<p>"Enjoy it the last time you had it?"</p>
<p>Wilson laughs uncomfortably. "What's your point? You trying to say <em>you're</em> interested?" House raps Wilson's shoulder with the cane again, hard enough to bruise. "Ow!" Wilson backs away, deciding to get out of range. "Fine. It was lousy. Is there a point to this?"</p>
<p>"I thought you were just hung up on someone, but you really didn't want anyone, did you." This time, it comes out as an accusation. Wilson raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. "How've you been sleeping, Wilson?"</p>
<p>He leans against the wall. "House, I've been living in a hotel room without a working bank account. And how did we go from making fun of my non-existent sex life to 'how do you sleep with yourself?'" He cocks his head and House leers. "Actually, don't answer that."</p>
<p>House's leer changes to a more normal grin, then his face turns serious again and he nods. "And then there's all the touchy feely crap you've been going on about..."</p>
<p>Wilson shakes his head. "That's your fault," he says without any particular feeling.</p>
<p>"Yeah, blame it on the guy with the cane." House gets a put-upon, annoyed look on his face for a moment, then sighs. "Go inside, shake off the snow and get warm. Put your <em>shoes </em>back on. Come get a coffee if you'd like; I'll make sure Cameron doesn't bite off anything important." He leans heavily on his cane. "And then, go talk to... Griffith in psych. Specializes in depression."</p>
<p>Wilson misses a beat and House turns to go back into his office. "House, this is ridiculous. I'm not depressed," says Wilson.</p>
<p>"Yeah. Symptoms of sexual anhedonia, insomnia, and emptiness. It's not definitive, but then, that's why we hire mental health experts to do the touchy feely talking to people <em>thing</em>." House turns and hobbles back. "Let's make a deal. I'll try rehab, you try Griffith. We know they'll throw us both out. We can see who lasts longer on that side of the building. Bet you a hundred bucks I get sent back first."</p>
<p>"Only because no one can stand you," Wilson says reflexively, then shakes himself and looks at House with a sense of disbelief. "I do the stupidest thing I've done in my entire life, and you try to turn me into a patient so... so I'll <em>feel better</em>?" His eyebrows draw together. "And you say I need to fix people..."</p>
<p>"No, I said your problem is that you <em>care </em>about everyone and everything. Julie had an affair, and she <em>still</em> threw <em>you </em>out. You walking out on <em>anyone </em>is a cry for help." House shakes his head. "Go inside or I'm sending Foreman to drag you in, and he's just as mad as the rest of them." He turns and opens the door to his office. "Oh, and remind me to tell Cuddy off about yelling at you where my team can hear."</p>
<p>"House," begins Wilson, who hasn't started moving to go inside yet. "You don't need to make up an excuse for me. I'm not a puzzle. I'm just a lousy doctor and a lousy friend. I'm not depressed. I just don't <em>care </em>anymore."</p>
<p>House looks down at the threshold between the snow and the carpet. "Of course, what was I thinking? It's <em>normal</em> for you crazy Canadian-trained doctors to make snow angels in your socks-" House pauses and tilts his head, then grins and steps in. "It's so simple!" The door closes, but as almost an afterthought, it opens just enough for him to lean his head out. "Go <em>inside</em>, Wilson!" he says, and the door is shut again.</p>
<p>Wilson sighs and kicks some snow off the balcony before he goes inside. He pulls off his wet socks and undoes his tie, and looks between the files and the phone, and finally makes an appointment to see Griffith in psych. He'll go and he'll use it as leverage to get House into rehab. It couldn't hurt more than what he's done to House recently.</p>
<p>Wilson knows he isn't depressed, knows House is seeing what he wants to see because they've been friends for a long time, and making excuses right now is easier than saying it's over.</p>
<p>Maybe the excuse means it isn't.</p>
<p>And Wilson shakes his head, vaguely sad that he can't seem to care.</p>
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